2025 NaPM 17 April

[busker]

Acres of stench, crushed goods,
food spoiled to reeking,
sunrise kisses rotted oranges,
avocados black inside and out,
cans rust-rimmed fermenting
liquors of strained peas,
and coverletting all, burst plastic bags
black, white, with gaily colored ties
their open wounds entrailing food
for seagull and swart crow,
brash birds of omen here placated
with offal of cities.

Sing!
Praise muscular men and their
strong hydraulic-thewed,
bright-painted bull-machines
hot green, sunflower yellow, treading down,
re-crushing trash, then covering
with perfume, disinfectant and then dirt
sealing until Time can churn
digested landfill into Land.

Waste management, water, and wastewater services keep civilisation ticking, yet they don't feature as prominently in the public mind as they should (except of course when things go wrong). 
Not enough poems are written about the industrial system that keeps us alive and in a position to enjoy the hours of idleness.

Though being muscular is less of a requirement to be a bin-man these days. The main task is - where the bin can't be placed alongside the kerb - is to move the bin to a spot where the hydraulic arm of the truck can pick it up clearly.
And robots will soon be doing that task. The thing to admire, at least for me, is the machinery and industrial process involved, not so much the meddlesome humans in all this.

Nice one.